'C.7V-7 


THE  RIDE  TO  THE  LADY 


BY 


HELEN  GRAY  CONE 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 


1893 


Copyright,  1891, 
BY  HELEN  GRAY  CONE. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The  Ride  to  the  Lady       5 

The  First  Guest 9 

Silence I2 

Arraignment 14 

The  Going  Out  of  the  Tide 16 

King  Raedwald .     .     .  19 

Ivo  of  Chartres ,    .  23 

Madonna  Pia 26 

Two  Moods  of  Failure 31 

The  Story  of  the  «  Orient  " 37 

A  Resurrection 42 

The  Glorious  Company 44 

The  Trumpeter 46 

Comrades 48 

The  House  of  Hate 5o 

The  Arrowmaker 53 

A  Nest  in  a  Lyre c6 

Thisbe -^ 

The  Spring  Beauties -.  eg 

Kinship 6o 

Compensation g2 

When  Willows  Green 63 

At  the  Parting  of  the  Ways       64 


305225 


iv  Contents 

The  Fair  Gray  Lady 67 

The  Encounter 68 

Summer  Hours 72 

Love  Unsung 73 

The  Wish  for  a  Chaplet 74 

Sonnets : 

The  Torch  Race 77 

To  Sleep 7§ 

Sister  Snow 79 

Retrospect 80 

The  Contrast Si 

A  Mystery 82 

Triumph 84 

In  Winter,  with  the  Book  we  read  in  Spring  ...  85 

Sere  Wisdom 87 

Isolation       89 

The  Lost  Dryad 9° 

A  Memory 91 

The  Gifts  of  the  Oak 92 

The  Strayed  Singer 94 

The  Immortal  Word  .                            95 


THE   RIDE  TO   THE   LADY 

"  Now  since  mine  even  is  come  at  last,  — 
For  I  have  been  the  sport  of  steel, 
And  hot  life  ebbeth  from  me  fast, 
And  I  in  saddle  roll  and  reel,  — 
Come  bind  me,  bind  me  on  my  steed  ! 
Of  fingering  leech  I  have  no  need  !  " 
The  chaplain  clasped  his  mailed  knee. 
"  Nor  need  I  more  thy  whine  and  thee  ! 
No  time  is  left  my  sins  to  tell ; 
But  look  ye  bind  me,  bind  me  well ! " 
They  bound  him  strong  with  leathern  thong, 
For  the  ride  to  the  lady  should  be  long. 

Day  was  dying  ;  the  poplars  fled, 
Thin  as  ghosts,  on  a  sky  blood-red  ; 
Out  of  the  sky  the  fierce  hue  fell, 
And  made  the  streams  as  the  streams  of  hell. 
All  his  thoughts  as  a  river"  flowed, 
Flowed  aflame  as  fleet  he  rode, 
5 


6  The  Ride  to  the  Lady 

Onward  flowed  to  her  abode, 
Ceased  at  her  feet,  mirrored  her  face. 
(Viewless  Death  apace,  apace, 
Rode  behind  him  in  that  race.) 

"  Face,  mine  own,  mine  alone, 

Trembling  lips  my  lips  have  known, 

Birdlike  stir  of  the  dove-soft  eyne 

Under  the  kisses  that  make  them  mine ! 

Only  of  thee,  of  thee,  my  need ! 

Only  to  thee,  to  thee,  I  speed  ! " 

The  Cross  flashed  by  at  the  highway's  turn  ; 

In  a  beam  of  the  moon  the  Face  shone  stern. 

Far  behind  had  the  fight's  din  died ; 
The  shuddering  stars  in  the  welkin  wide 
Crowded,  crowded,  to  see  him  ride. 
The  beating  hearts  of  the  stars  aloof 
Kept  time  to  the  beat  of  the  horse's  hoof. 
"  What  is  the  throb  that  thrills  so  sweet? 
Heart  of  my  lady,  I  feel  it  beat ! " 
But  his  own  strong  pulse  the  fainter  fell, 
Like  the  failing  tongue  of  a  hushing  bell. 
The  flank  of  the  great-limbed  steed  was  wet 
Not  alone  with  the  started  sweat. 


The  Ride  to  the  Lady  y 

Fast,  and  fast,  and  the  thick  black  wood 
Arched  its  cowl  like  a  black  friar's  hood  ; 
Fast,  and  fast,  and  they  plunged  therein,  — 
But  the  viewless  rider  rode  to  win. 

Out  of  the  wood  to  the  highway's  light 
Galloped  the  great-limbed  steed  in  fright ; 
The  mail  clashed  cold,  and  the  sad  owl  cried, 
And  the  weight  of  the  dead  oppressed  his  side. 

Fast,  and  fast,  by  the  road  he  knew ; 
And  slow,  and  slow,  the  stars  withdrew  j 
And  the  waiting  heaven  turned  weirdly  blue, 
As  a  garment  worn  of  a  wizard  grim. 
He  neighed  at  the  gate  in  the  morning  dim. 

She  heard  no  sound  before  her  gate, 
Though  very  quiet  was  her  bower. 
All  was  as  her  hand  had  left  it  late  : 
The  needle  slept  on  the  broidered  vine, 
Where  the  hammer  and  spikes  of  the  passion 
flower 

Her  fashioning  did  wait. 
On  the  couch  lay  something  fair, 
With  steadfast  lips  and  veiled  eyne ; 


8  The  Ride  to  the  Lady 

But  the  lady  was  not  there. 

On  the  wings  of  shrift  and  prayer, 

Pure  as  winds  that  winnow  snow, 

Her  soul  had  risen  twelve  hours  ago. 

The  burdened  steed  at  the  barred  gate  stood, 

No  whit  the  nearer  to  his  goal. 

Now  God's  great  grace  assoil  the  soul 

That  went  out  in  the  wood  1 


THE  FIRST  GUEST 

When  the  house  is  finished,  Death  enters. 

Eastern  Proverb. 

LIFE'S  House  being  ready  all, 
Each  chamber  fair  and  dumb, 
Ere  Life,  the  Lord,  is  come 
With  pomp  into  his  hall,  — 
Ere  Toil  has  trod  the  floors, 
Ere  Love  has  lit  the  fires, 
Or  young  great-eyed  Desires 
Have,  timid,  tried  the  doors  j 
Or  from  east-window  leaned 
One  Hope,  to  greet  the  sun, 
Or  one  gray  Sorrow  screened 
Her  sight  against  the  west,  — 
Then  enters  the  first  guest, 
The  House  of  Life  being  done. 

He  waits  there  in  the  shade. 
I  deem  he  is  Life's  twin, 
For  whom  the  House  was  made. 
9 


io  The  First  Guest 

Whatever  his  true  name, 

Be  sure,  to  enter  in 

He  has  both  key  and  claim. 

The  daybeams,  free  of  fear, 
Creep  drowsy  toward  his  feet ; 
His  heart  were  heard  to  beat, 
Were  any  there  to  hear  ; 
Ah,  not  for  ends  malign, 
Like  wild  thing  crouched  in  lair, 
Or  watcher  of  a  snare, 
But  with  a  friend's  design 
He  lurks  in  shadow  there ! 

He  goes  not  to  the  gates 

To  welcome  any  other, 

Nay,  not  Lord  Life,  his  brother ; 

But  still  his  hour  awaits 

Each  several  guest  to  find 

Alone,  yea,  quite  alone ; 

Pacing  with  pensive  mind 

The  cloister's  echoing  stone, 

Or  singing,  unaware, 

At  the  turning  of  the  stair. 

'T  is  truth,  though  we  forget, 


The  First  Guest  u 

In  Life's  House  enters  none 

Who  shall  that  seeker  shun, 

Who  shall  not  so  be  met. 
"  Is  this  mine  hour  ?  "  each  saith. 
"So  be  it,  gentle  Death!" 

Each  has  his  way  to  end, 

Encountering  this  friend. 

Griefs  die  to  memories  mild  ; 

Hope  turns  a  weaned  child  ; 

Love  shines  a  spirit  white, 

With  eyes  of  deepened  light. 

When  many  a  guest  has  passed, 

Some  day  't  is  Life's  at  last 

To  front  the  face  of  Death. 

Then,  casements  closed,  men  say : 
"  Lord  Life  is  gone  away  ; 

He  went,  we  trust  and  pray, 

To  God,  who  gave  him  breath." 

Beginning,  End,  He  is  : 

Are  not  these  sons  both  His  ? 

Lo,  these  with  Him  are  one ! 

To  phrase  it  so  were  best : 

God's  self  is  that  first  Guest, 

The  House  of  Life  being  done  ! 


SILENCE 

WHY  should  I  sing  of  earth  or  heaven?  not 

rather  rest, 
Powerless  to  speak  of  that  which  hath  my  soul 

possessed,  — 
For    full  possession    dumb?      Yea,    Silence, 

that  were  best. 

And  though  for  what  it  failed  to  sound  I  brake 

the  string, 
And  dashed  the  sweet  lute  down,  a  too-much- 

fmgered  thing, 
And  found  a  wild  new  voice,  —  oh,  still,  why 

should  I  sing  ? 

An  earth-song  could  I  make,  strange  as  the 

breath  of  earth, 
Filled  with  the  great  calm  joy  of  life  and  death 

and  birth  ? 
Yet,  were  it  less  than  this,  the  song  were  little 

worth. 

12 


Silence  13 

For  this  the  fields  express ;  brown  clods  tell 
each  to  each ; 

Sad-colored  leaves  have  sense  whereto  I  can 
not  reach ; 

Spiced  everlasting-flowers  outstrip  my  range  of 
speech. 

A  heaven-song  could  I  make,  all  fire  that  yet 
was  peace, 

And  tenderness  not  lost,  though  glory  did  in 
crease  ? 

But  were  it  less  than  this,  'twere  well  the  song 
should  cease. 

For  this  the  still  west  saith,  with  plumy  flames 

bestrewn  ; 
Heaven's  body  sapphire-clear,  at  stirless  height 

of  noon ; 
The  cloud  where  lightnings  pulse,  beside  the 

untroubled  moon. 

I  will  not  sing  of  earth  or  heaven,  but  rather  rest, 
Rapt  by  the  face  of  heaven,  and  held  on  earth's 

warm  breast. 
Hushed  lips,  a  beating  heart,  yea,  Silence,  that 

were  best. 


ARRAIGNMENT 

"  NOT  ye  who  have  stoned,  not  ye  who  have 

smitten  us,"  cry 
The  sad,  great  souls,  as  they  go  out  hence 

into  dark, 
"  Not  ye  we  accuse,  though  for  you  was  our 

passion  borne  j 
And  ye  we  reproach  not,  who  silently  passed 

us  by. 
We  forgive   blind  eyes   and   the  ears  that 

would  not  hark, 
The   careless   and   causeless  hate  and   the 

shallow  scorn. 

"  But  ye,  who  have  seemed  to  know  us,  have 

seen  and  heard  ; 
Who  have  set  us  at  feasts  and  have  crowned 

with  the  costly  rose  ; 

Who  have  spread  us  the  purple  of  praises 
beneath  our  feet ; 
14 


Arraignment  75 

Yet  guessed  not  the  word  that  we  spake  was  a 

living  word, 
Applauding  the  sound,  —  we  account  you  as 

worse  than  foes ! 

We  sobbed  you  our  message  ;  ye  'said,  '  It  is 
song,  and  sweet ! '  " 


THE  GOING  OUT  OF   THE  TIDE 

THE  eastern  heaven  was  all  faint  amethyst, 
Whereon  the  moon  hung  dreaming  in  the  mist  j 
To  north  yet  drifted  one  long  delicate  plume 
Of  roseate  cloud  ;  like  snow  the  ocean-spume. 

Now  when  the  first  foreboding  swiftly  ran 
Through  the  loud-glorying  sea  that  it  began 
To  lose  its  late-gained  lordship  of  the  land, 
Uprose  the  billow  like  an  angered  man, 
And  flung  its  prone  strength  far  along  the  sand  ; 
Almost,  almost  to  the  old  bound,  the  dark 
And  taunting  triumph-mark. 

But  no,  no,  no !  and  slow,  and  slow,  and  slow, 
Like  a  heart  losing  hold,  this  wave  must  go,  — 
Must  go,  must   go,  —  dragged  heavily  back, 

back, 

Beneath  the  next  wave  plunging  on  its  track, 
Charging,  with  thunderous  and  defiant  shout, 
To  fore-determined  rout. 
16 


The  Going  Out  of  the  Tide          ij 

Again,  again  the  unexhausted  main 
Renews  fierce  effort,  drawing  force  unguessed 
From  awful  deeps  of  its  mysterious  breast : 
Like  arms  of  passionate  protest,  tossed  in  vain, 
The  spray  upflings  above  the  billow's  crest. 
Again    the     appulse,     again     the     backward 

strain  — 
Till  ocean  must  have  rest. 

With   one   abandoned   movement,    swift    and 

wild,  — 
As  though  bowed  head  and  outstretched  arms 

it  laid 
On  the  earth's  lap,  soft-sobbing,  —  hushed  and 

stayed, 

The  great  sea  quiets,  like  a  soothed  child. 
Ha !  what  sharp  memory  clove  the  calm,  and 

drave 
This  last  fleet  furious  wave  ? 

On,  on,  endures  the  struggle  into  night, 
Ancient  as  Time,  yet  fresh  as  the  fresh  hour ; 
As  oft  repeated  since  the  birth  of  light 
As  the  strong  agony  and  mortal  fight 
Of    human    souls,    blind-reaching,    with     the 
Power 


1 8  The  Going  Out  of  the  Tide 

Aloof,  unmoved,  impossible  to  cross, 
Whose  law  is  seeming  loss. 

Low-sunken  from  the  longed-for  triumph-mark, 
The  spent  sea  sighs  as  one  that  grieves  in  sleep. 
The  unveiled  moon  along  the  rippling  plain 
Casts  many  a  keen,  cold,  shifting  silvery  spark, 
Wild  as  the  pulses  of  strange  joy,  that  leap 
Even  in  the  quick  of  pain. 

And  she  compelling,  she  that  stands  for  law,  — 
As  law  for  Will  eternal,  —  perfect,  clear, 
And  uncompassionate  shines  :  to  her  appear 
Vast  sequences  close-linked  without  a  flaw. 
All  past  despairs  of  ocean  unforgot, 
All  raptures  past,  serene  her  light  she  gives, 
The  moon  too  high  for  pity,  since  she  lives 
Aware  that  loss  is  not. 


KING  RAEDWALD 

WILL  you  hear  now  the  speech  of  King  Raed- 

wald,  —  heathen  Raedwald,  the  simple 

yet  wise  ? 
He,  the  ruler  of  North-folk  and  South-folk,  a 

man  open-browed  as  the  skies, 
Held  the  eyes  of  the  eager  Italians  with  his 

blue,  bold,  Englishman's  eyes. 

In  his  hall,  on  his  throne,  so  he  sat,  with  the 

light  of  the  fire  on  him  full : 
Colored  bright  as  the  ring  of  red  gold  on  his 

hand,  fit  to  buffet  a  bull, 
Was  the  mane  that  grew  down  on  his  neck,  was 

the  beard  he  would  pondering  pull. 

To  the  priests,  to  the  eager  Italians,  thus  fear 
less  he  poured  his  free  speech : 

"  O  my  honey-tongued  fathers,  I  turn  not  away 
from  the  faith  that  ye  teach ! 
19 


2O  King  Raedwald 

Not  the  less  hath  a  man  many  moods,  and 
may  ask  a  religion  for  each. 

"Grant  that  all  things  are  well  with  the  realm 
on  a  delicate  day  of  the  spring, 

Easter  month,  time  of  hopes  and  of  swallows  ! 
The  praises,  the  psalms  that  ye  sing, 

As  in  pleasant  accord  they  float  heavenward, 
are  good  in  the  ears  of  the  king. 

"  Then  the  heart  bubbles  forth  with  clear  wa 
ters,  to  the  tune  of  this  wonder-word 
Peace, 

From  the  chanting  and  preaching  whereof  ye 
who  serve  the  white  Christ  never  cease ; 

And  your  curly,  soft  incense  ascending  enwraps 
my  content  like  a  fleece. 

"  But  a  churl  comes  adrip  from  the  rivers, 
pants  me  out,  fallen  spent  on  the  floor, 

1  O  King  Raedwald,  Northumberland  marches, 
and  to-morrow  knocks  hard  at  thy  door, 

Hot  for  melting  thy  crown  on  the  hearth ! ' 

Then  commend  me  to  Woden  and  Thor ! 


King  Raedwald  21 

"  Could  I  sit  then  and  listen  to  preachments 
on  turning  the  cheek  to  the  blow, 

And  saying  a  prayer  for  the  smiter,  and  holding 
my  seen  treasure  low 

For  the  sake  of  a  treasure  unseen  ?  By  the 
sledge  of  the  Thunderer,  no ! 

"  For  my  thought  flashes  out  as  a  sword,  cleav 
ing  counsel  as  clottage  of  cream  ; 

And  your  incense  and  chanting  are  but  as  the 
smoke  of  burnt  towns  and  the  scream  ; 

And  I  quaff  me  the  thick  mead  of  triumph 
from  enemies'  skulls  in  my  dream ! 

"  And  't  is  therefore  this  day  I  resolve  me,  — 

for  King  Raedwald  will  cringe  not,  nor 

lie!  — 
I  will  bring  back  the  altar  of  Woden ;  in  the 

temple  will  have  it,  hard  by 
The  new  altar  of  this  your  white  Christ.     As 

my  mood  may  decide,  worship  I  !  " 

So  he  spake  in  his  large  self-reliance,  —  he,  a 
man  open-browed  as  the  skies  ; 

Would  not  measure  his  soul  by  a  standard  that 
was  womanish-weak  to  his  eyes, 


22  King  Raedwald 

Smite  his  breast  and  go  on  with  his  sinning, 

—  savage    Raedwald,    the    simple   yet 

wise! 

And  the  centuries  bloom  o'er  his  barrow.  But 
for  us,  —  have  we  mastered  it  quite, 

The  old  riddle,  that  sweet  is  strong's  outcome, 
the  old  marvel,  that  meekness  is  might, 

That  the  child  is  the  leader  of  lions,  that  for 
giveness  is  force  at  its  height  ? 

When  we  summon  the  shade  of  rude  Raedwald, 

in  his  candor  how  king-like  he  towers  ! 
Have   the   centuries,  over  his   slumber,  only 

borne  sterile  falsehoods  for  flowers  ? 
Pray  you,  what  if  Christ  found  him  the  nobler, 

having  weighed  his  frank  manhood  with 

ours? 


IVO   OF   CHARTRES 

Now  may  it  please  my  lord,  Louis  the  king, 

Lily  of  Christ  and  France  !  riding  his  quest, 
I,  Bishop  Ivo,  saw  a  wondrous  thing. 

There  was  no  light  of  sun  left  in  the  west, 
And  slowly  did  the  moon's  new  light  increase. 

Heaven,  without  cloud,  above  the  near  hill's 

crest, 
Lay  passion-purple  in  a  breathless  peace. 

Stars  started  like  still  tears,  in  rapture  shed, 
Which  without  consciousness  the  lids  release. 

All  steadily,  one  little  sparkle  red, 
Afar,  drew  close.     A  woman's  form  grew  up 

Out  of  the  dimness,  tall,  with  queen-like  head, 
And  in  one  hand  was  fire  ;  in  one,  a  cup. 

Of  aspect  grave  she  was,  with  eyes  upraised, 
As  one  whose  thoughts  perpetually  did  sup 

At  the  Lord's  table. 

23 


24  too  of  Chartres 

While  the  cresset  blazed, 
Her  I  regarded.     "  Daughter,  whither  bent, 
And  wherefore?"     As  by  speech   of  man 

amazed, 

One  moment  her  deep  look  to  me  she  lent ; 
Then,  in  a  voice  of  hymn-like,  solemn  fall, 
Calm,  as  by  rote,  she  spake  out  her  intent : 

"  I  in  my  cruse  bear  water,  wherewithal 
To   quench  the  flames  of  Hell ;  and  with  my 

fire 

I  Paradise  would  burn  :  that  hence  no  small 

Fear  shall  impel,  and  no  mean  hope  shall  hire, 

Men  to  serve  God  as  they  have  served  of 

yore; 

But  to  his  will  shall  set  their  whole  desire, 
For  love,  love,  love  alone,  forevermore  !  " 

And  "  love,  love,  love,"  rang  round  her  as  she 

passed 
From  sight,  with  mystic  murmurs  o'er  and 

o'er 
Reverbed  from  hollow  heaven,  as  from  some 

vast, 
Deep-colored,  vaulted,  ocean-answering  shell. 


fvo  of  Chartres  25 

I,  Ivo,  had  no  power  to  ban  or  bless, 

But  was  as  one  withholden  by  a  spell. 
Forward  she  fared  in  lofty  loneliness, 
Urged  on  by  an  imperious  inward  stress, 
To  waste  fair  Eden,  and  to  drown  fierce  Hell. 


MADONNA  PIA 

Ricordati  di  me,  che  son  la  Pia. 
Siena  mi  fe  ;  disfecemi  Maremma : 
Salsi  colui,  che,  inanellata  pria, 
Disposato  m'  avea  colla  sua  gemma. 

Purgatorio,  Canto  V. 

To  westward  lies  the  unseen  sea, 

Blue  sea  the  live  winds  wander  o'er. 
The  many-colored  sails  can  flee, 

And  leave  the  dead,  low-lying  shore. 
Her  longing  does  not  seek  the  main, 

Her  face  turns  northward  first  at  morn  ; 
There,  crowning  all  the  wide  champaign, 

Siena  stood,  where  she  was  born. 

Siena  stands,  and  still  shall  stand  ; 

She  ne'er  shall  see  or  town  or  tower. 
Warm  life  and  beauty,  hand  in  hand, 

Steal  farther  from  her  hour  by  hour. 
Yet  forth  she  leans,  with  trembling  knees, 

And  northward  will  she  stare  and  stare 
26 


Madonna  Pia  27 

Through  that  thick  wall  of  cypress-trees, 
And  sigh  adown  the  stirless  air  : 

"  Shall  no  remembrance  in  Siena  linger 
Of    me,   once  fair,   whom   slow   Maremma 

slays  ? 

As  well  he  knows,  whose  ring  upon  my  finger 
Hath    sealed   for  his    alone    mine   earthly 
days !  " 

From  wilds  where  shudders  through  the  weeds 

The  dull,  mean-headed,  silent  snake, 
Like  voiceless  doubt  that  creeps  and  breeds  ; 

From  swamps  where  sluggish  waters  take, 
As  lives  unblest  a  passing  love, 

The  flag-flower's  image  in  the  spring, 
Or  seem,  when  flits  the  bird  above, 

To  stir  within  with  shadowed  wing, 

A  Presence  mounts  in  pallid  mist 

To  fold  her  close :  she  breathes  its  breath  ; 
She  waxes  wan,  by  Fever  kissed, 

Who  weds  her  for  his  master,  Death. 
Aside  are  set  her  dimmed  hopes  all, 

She  counts  no  more  the  uncurrent  hoard  ; 


28  Madonna  Pia 

On  gray  Death's  neck  she  fain  would  fall, ' 
To  own  him  for  her  proper  lord. 

She  minds  the  journey  here  by  night : 

When  some  red  sudden  torch  would  blaze, 
She  saw  by  fits,  with  childish  fright, 

The  cork-trees  twist  beside  the  ways. 
Like  dancing  demon  shapes  they  showed, 

With  malice  drunk ;  the  bat  beat  by, 
The  owlet  sobbed ;  on,  on  they  rode, 

She  knew  not  where,  she  knows  not  why. 

For  Nello,  —  when  in  piteous  wise 

She  lifted  up  her  look  to  ask, 
Except  the  ever-burning  eyes 

His  face  was  like  a  marble  mask. 
And  so  it  always  meets  her  now  ; 

The  tomb  wherein  at  last  he  lies 
Shall  bear  such  carven  lips  and  brow, 

All  save  the  ever-burning  eyes. 

Perchance  it  is  his  form  alone 

Doth  stroke  his  hound,  at  meat  doth  sit, 
And,  for  the  soul  that  was  his  own, 

A  fiend  awhile  inhabits  it ; 


Madonna  Pia  29 

While  he  sinks  through  the  fiery  throng, 
Down,  down,  to  fill  an  evil  bond, 

Since  false  conceit  of  others'  wrong 
Hath  wrought  him  to  a  sin  beyond. 

But  she,  —  if  when  her  years  were  glad 

Vain  fluttering  thoughts  were  hers,  that  hid 
Behind  that  gracious  fame  she  had ; 

If  e'er  observance  hard  she  did 
That  sinful  men  might  call  her  saint,  — 

White-handed  Pia,  dovelike-eyed,  — 
The  sick  blank  hours  shall  yet  acquaint 

Her  heart  with  all  her  blameful  pride. 

And  Death  shall  find  her  kneeling  low, 

And  lift  her  to  the  porphyry  stair, 
And  she  from  ledge  to  ledge  shall  go, 

Stayed  by  the  staff  of  that  last  prayer, 
Until  the  high,  sweet-singing  wood 

Whence  folk  are  rapt  to  heaven,  she  win; 
Therein  the  unparcloned  never  stood, 

Nor  may  one  Sorrow  nest  therein. 

But  through  the  Tuscan  land  shall  beat 
Her  Sorrow,  like  a  wounded  bird  ; 


jo  Madonna  Pia 

And  if  her  suit  at  Mary's  feet 
Avail,  its  moan  shall  yet  be  heard 

By  some  just  poet,  who  shall  shed, 

Whate'er  the  theme  that  leads  his  rhyme, 

Bright  words  like  tears  above  her,  dead, 
Entreating  of  the  after-time  : 

"  Among  you  let  her  mournful  memory  linger ! 

Siena  bare  her,  whom  Maremma  slew ; 
And  that   dark   lord,  who  gave  her  maiden 
finger 

His  ancient  gem,  the  secret  only  knew." 


TWO   MOODS  OF  FAILURE 

i 

THE  LAST  CUP  OF  CANARY 
SIR  HARRY  LOVELOCK,  1645 

So,  the  powder  's  low,  and  the  larder 's  clean, 
And  surrender  drapes,  with  its  blacks  im 
pending, 

All  the  stage  for  a  sorry  and  sullen  scene  : 
Yet  indulge  me  my  whim  of  a  madcap  end 
ing  ! 

Let  us  once  more  fill,  ere  the  final  chill, 

Every  vein  with  the  glow  of  the  rich  canary ! 

Since  the  sweet  hot  liquor  of  life's  to  spill, 
Of  the  last  of  the  cellar  what  boots  be  chary  ? 

Then  hear  the  conclusion  :  I  '11  yield  my  breath, 
But  my  leal  old  house  and  my  good  blade 
never ! 


}2  Two  Moods  of  Failure 

Better  one  bitter  kiss  on  the  lips  of  Death 
Than  despoiled  Defeat  as  a  wife  forever  ! 

Let  the  faithful  fire  hold  the  walls  in  ward 
Till  the  roof-tree  crash !   Be  the  smoke  once 

riven 
While  we  flash  from   the  gate  like   a  single 

sword, 

True  steel  to  the  hilt,  though  in  dull  earth 
driven  ! 

Do  you  frown,  Sir  Richard,  above  your  ruff, 
In  the  Holbein  yondef  ?     My  deed  ensures 

you  ! 

For  the  flame  like  a  fencer  shall  give  rebuff 
To  your  blades  that  blunder,  you  Round 
head  boors,  you  ! 

And  my  ladies,  a-row  on  the  gallery  wall, 
Not  a  sing-song  sergeant  or  corporal  sainted 

Shall  pierce  their  breasts  with  his  Puritan  ball, 
To  annul  the  charms  of  the  flesh,  though 
painted  ! 

I  have  worn  like  a  jewel  the  life  they  gave  ; 
As  the  ring  in  mine  ear  I  can  lightly  lose  it. 


Two  Moods  of  Failure  33 

If  my    days   be    done,   why,   my  days  were 

brave ! 
If  the  end  arrive,  I  as  master  choose  it ! 

Then  fill  to  the  brim,  and  a  health,  I  say, 
To  our  liege  King  Charles,  and  I  pray  God 

bless  him  ! 

'T  would  amend  worse  vintage  to  drink  dismay 
To  the  clamorous  mongrel  pack  that  press 
him  ! 

And  a  health  to  the  fair  women,  past  recall, 
That  like  birds  astray  through  the  heart's 

hall  flitted  ; 
To  the  lean  devil  Failure  last  of  all, 

And  the  lees  in  his  beard  for  a  fiend  out 
witted  ! 


ii 


THE  YOUNG  MAN  CHARLES  STUART  REVIEW- 
ETH  THE  TROOPS  ON  BLACKHEATH 

(PRIVATE  CONSTANT-IN-TRIBULATION  JOYCE,  May,  1660) 

WE  were   still   as   a  wood   without  wind ;  as 
't  were  set  by  a  spell 


34  Two  Moods  of  Failure 

Stayed  the  gleam  on  the  steel-cap,  the  glint  on 

the  slant  petronel. 
He  to  left  of  me  drew  down  his  grim  grizzled 

lip  with  his  teeth,  — 
I  remember  his  look ;  so  we  grew  like  dumb 

trees  on  the  heath. 

But  the  people,  —  the   people  were   mad   as 

with  store  of  new  wine  ; 
Oh,  they  cheered  him,  they  capped  him,  they 

roared  as  he  rode  down  the  line  : 
He  that  fled  us  at  Worcester,  the  boy,  the  green 

brier-shoot,  the  son 
Of  the  Stuart  on  whom  for  his  sin  the  great 

judgment  was  done ! 

Swam  before  us  the  field  of  our  shame,  and 

our  souls  walked  afar ; 
Saw  the  glory,  the  blaze  of  the  sun  bursting 

over  Dunbar ; 
Saw  the  faces  of  friends,  in  the  morn  riding 

jocund  to  fight ; 
Saw  the  stern  pallid  faces  again,  as  we  saw 

them  at  night ! 


Two  Moods  of  Failure  35 

"  O  ye  blessed,  who  died  in  the  Lord !  would 

to  God  that  we  too 
Had  so  passed,  only  sad  that  we  ceased  his 

high  justice  to  do, 
With  the  words  of  the  psalm  on  our  lips  that 

from  Israel's  once  came, 
How  the  Lord  is  a  strong  man  of  war ;  yea, 

the  Lord  is  his  name  ! 

"  Not  for  us,  not  for  us  !  who  have  served  for 

his  kingdom  seven  years, 
Yea,  and  yet  other  seven   have  we  served, 

sweating  blood,  bleeding  tears, 
For    the   kingdom   of   God    and  the   saints  1 

Rachel's  beauty  made  bold, 
Yet  we  bear  but  a  Leah  at  last  to  a  hearth 

that  is  cold !  " 

Burned  the  fire  while  I  mused,  while  I  gloomed ; 

in  the  end  came  a  call ; 
Settled  o'er  me  a  calm  like  a  cloud,  spake  a 

voice  still  and  small : 
"  Take  thou  Leah  to  bride,  take  thou  Failure 

to  bed  and  to  board  ! 
Thou  shalt  rear  up  new  strengths  at  her  knees ; 

she  is  given  of  the  Lord  ! 


36  Two  Moods  of  Failure 

"  If  with  weight  of  his  right  hand,  with  power, 

he  denieth  to  deal, 
And  the  smoke-clouds,  and  thunders  of  guns, 

and  the  lightnings  of  steel, 
Shall  the  cool  silent  dews  of  his  grace,  in  a 

season  of  peace, 
Not  descend  on  the  land,  as  of  old,  for  a  sign, 

on  the  fleece  ? 

"  Hath  he  cleft  not  the  rock,  to  the  yield  of  a 

stream  that  is  sweet  ? 
Hath  he  set  in  the  ribs  of  the  lion  no  honey  for 

meat? 
Can  he  bring  not  delight  to  the  desert,  and 

buds  to  the  rod  ? 
He  will  shine,  he  will  visit  his  vine ;  he  hath 

sworn,  he  is  God  !  " 

Then  I  thought  of  the  gate  I  rode  through  on 

the  roan  that 's  long  dead,  — 
I  remember  the  dawn  was  but  pale,  and  the 

stars  overhead ; 
Of  the  babe  that  is  grown  to  a  maid,  and  of 

Martha,  my  wife, 
And  the  spring  on  the  wolds  far  away,  and 

gave  thanks  for  my  life  ! 


THE   STORY  OF  THE  "ORIENT" 

'T  WAS  a  pleasant  Sunday  morning  while  the 

spring  was  in  its  glory, 
English  spring  of  gentle  glory ;  smoking  by  his 

cottage  door, 
Florid-faced,    the    man-o'-war's-man    told    his 

white-head  boy  the  story, 
Noble  story  of  Aboukir,  told  a  hundred  times 

before. 

"Here,  the  Theseus  —  here,  the  Vanguard;"  as 
he  spoke  each  name  sonorous,  — 

Minotaur,  Defence,  Majestic,  stanch  old  com 
rades  of  the  brine, 

That  against  the  ships  of  Brueys  made  their 
broadsides  roar  in  chorus,  — 

Ranging  daisies  on  his  doorstone,  deft  he 
mapped  the  battle-line. 

Mapped  the  curve  of  tall  three-deckers,  deft  as 
might  a  man  left-handed, 
37 


38          The  Story  of  the  "  Orient " 

Who  had  given  an  arm  to  England  later  on  at 

Trafalgar. 
While  he  poured  the  praise  of  Nelson  to  the 

child  with  eyes  expanded, 
Bright  athwart  his  honest  forehead  blushed  the 

scarlet  cutlass-scar. 

For  he  served  aboard  the  Vanguard,  saw  the 

Admiral  blind  and  bleeding 
Borne  below  by  silent  sailors,  borne  to  die  as 

then  they  deemed. 
Every  stout  heart  sick  but  stubborn,  fought  the 

sea-dogs  on  unheeding, 
Guns  were  cleared  and  manned  and  cleared, 

the     battle     thundered,    flashed,     and 

screamed. 

Till  a  cry  swelled  loud  and  louder,  —  towered 
on  fire  the  Orient  stately, 

Brueys'  flag-ship,  she  that  carried  guns  a  hun 
dred  and  a  score  ; 

Then  came  groping  up  the  hatchway  he  they 
counted  dead  but  lately, 

Came  the  little  one-armed  Admiral  to  guide  the 
fight  once  more. 


The  Story  of  the  "  Orient "          39 

"  *  Lower  the  boats  ! '  was  Nelson's  order."  — 

But  the  listening  boy  beside  him, 
Who   had  followed  all   his   motions  with  an 

eager  wide  blue  eye, 
Nursed  upon  the  name  of  Nelson  till  he  half 

had  deified  him, 
Here,  with  childhood's  crude  consistence,  broke 

the  tale  to  question  "  Why  ?  " 

For  by  children  facts  go  streaming  in  a  throng 
that  never  pauses, 

Noted  not,  till,  of  a  sudden,  thought,  a  sun 
beam,  gilds  the  motes. 

All  at  once  the  known  words  quicken,  and  the 
child  would  deal  with  causes. 

Since  to  kill  the  French  was  righteous,  why 
bade  Nelson  lower  the  boats  ? 

Quick  the  man  put  by  the  question.     "  But  the 

Orient,  none  could  save  her ; 
We  could  see  the  ships,  the  ensigns,  clear  as 

daylight  by  the  flare  ; 
And   a  many  leaped  and  left  her ;  but,  God 

rest  'em  !  some  were  braver  ; 
Some  held  by  her,  firing  steady  till  she  blew  to 

God  knows  where." 


40          The  Story  of  the  "Orient" 

At   the  shock,  he  said,  the   Vanguard  shook 

through  all  her  timbers  oaken  ; 
It  was  like  the  shock  of  Doomsday,  —  not  a 

tar  but  shuddered  hard. 
All  was  hushed  for  one  strange  moment ;  then 

that  awful  calm  was  broken 
By  the  heavy  plash  that  answered  the  descent 

of  mast  and  yard. 

So,  her   cannon   still   defying,  and  her   colors 

flaming,  flying, 
In  her  pit  her  wounded  helpless,  on  her  deck 

her  Admiral  dead, 
Soared  the  Orient  into  darkness  with  her  living 

and  her  dying : 
"  Yet  our  lads  made  shift  to  rescue  three-score 

souls,"  the  seaman  said. 

Long  the  boy  with  knit  brows  wondered  o'er 
that  friending  of  the  foeman  ; 

Long  the  man  with  shut  lips  pondered  ;  power 
less  he  to  tell  the  cause 

Why  the  brother  in  his  bosom  that  desired  the 
death  of  no  man, 

In  the  crash  of  battle  wakened,  snapped  the 
bonds  of  hate  like  straws. 


The  Story  of  the  "  Orient"         41 

While  he  mused,  his  toddling  maiden  drew  the 

daisies  to  a  posy  ; 
Mild  the  bells  of  Sunday  morning  rang  across 

the  church-yard  sod ; 
And,  helped  on  by  tender  hands,  with  sturdy 

feet  all  bare  and  rosy, 
Climbed  his  babe  to  mother's  breast,  as  climbs 

the  slow  world  up  to  God. 


A   RESURRECTION 

Neither  -would  they  be  persuaded,  though  one  rose  from 
the  dead. 

I  WAS  quick  in  the  flesh,  was  warm,  and  the 

live  heart  shook  my  breast ; 
In  the  market  I  bought  and  sold,  in  the  tem 
ple  I  bowed  my  head. 
I  had  swathed  me  in  shows  and  forms,  and  was 

honored  above  the  rest 
For  the  sake  of  the  life  I  lived ;  nor  did  any 
esteem  me  dead. 

But  at  last,  when  the  hour  was  ripe  —  was  it 

sudden-remembered  word  ? 
Was  it  sight  of  a  bird  that  mounted,  or  sound 

of  a  strain  that  stole  ? 

I  was  'ware  of  a  spell  that  snapped,  of  an  in 
ward  strength  that  stirred, 
Of  a  Presence  that  filled  that  place ;  and  it 
shone,  and  I  knew  my  Soul. 
42 


A  Resurrection  43 

And  the  dream  I  had  called  my  life  was  a 

garment  about  my  feet, 
For  the  web  of  the  years  was  rent  with  the 

throe  of  a  yearning  strong. 
With  a  sweep  as  of  winds  in  heaven,  with  a 

rush  as  of  flames  that  meet, 
The  Flesh  and  the  Spirit  clasped;   and  I 
cried,    "  Was  I  dead  so  long  ? " 

I  had  glimpse  of  the  Secret,  flashed  through 

the  symbol  obscure  and  mean, 
And  I  felt  as  a  fire  what  erst  I  repeated  with 

lips  of  clay ; 
And  I  knew  for  the  things  eternal  the  things 

eye  hath  not  seen  ; 

Yea,  the  heavens  and  the  earth  shall  pass ; 
but  they  never  shall  pass  away. 

And  the  miracle  on  me  wrought,  in  the  streets 

I  would  straight  make  known  : 
"  When  this  marvel  of  mine  is  heard,  with 
out  cavil  shall  men  receive 
Any  legend  of  haloed  saint,  starting  up  through 

the  sealed  stone  !  " 

So  I  spake  in  the  trodden  ways ;  but  behold, 
there  would  none  believe  ! 


THE  GLORIOUS   COMPANY 

"  FACES,  faces,  faces  of  the  streaming  marching 

surge, 

Streaming  on  the  weary  road,  toward  the  aw 
ful  steep, 
Whence  your  glow  and  glory,  as  ye  set  to  that 

sharp  verge, 
Faces  lit  as  sunlit  stars,  shining  as  ye  sweep  ? 

"  Whence  this  wondrous  radiance  that  ye  some 
how  catch  and  cast, 
Faces  rapt,  that  one  discerns  'mid  the  dusky 

press 
Herding  in  dull  wonder,  gathering  fearful  to 

the  Vast  ? 

Surely  all  is  dark  before,  night  of  nothing 
ness  ! " 

Lo,  the  Light!  (they  answer)  O  the  pure,  the 
pulsing  Light) 

44 


The  Glorious  Company  45 

Seating  like  a  heart  of  life,  like  a  heart  of  love, 
Soaring,   searching,  filling  all  the  breadth  and 

depth  and  height, 

Welling,  whelming  with  its  peace  worlds  below, 
above  I 

"O   my  soul,   how  art    thou   to   that   living 

Splendor  blind, 
Sick  with  thy  desire  to  see  even  as  these 

men  see !  — 
Yet  to  look  upon  them  is  to  know  that  God 

hath  shined : 

Faces  lit  as  sunlit  stars,  be  all  my  light  to 
me!" 


THE  TRUMPETER 

Two  ships,  alone  in  sky  and  sea, 

Hang  clinched,  with  crash  and  roar ; 

There  is  but  one  —  whiche'er  it  be  — 
Will  ever  come  to  shore. 

And  will  it  be  the  grim  black  bulk, 

That  towers  so  evil  now  ? 
Or  will  it  be  The  Grace  of  God, 

With  the  angel  at  her  prow  ? 

The  man  that  breathes  the  battle's  breath 

May  live  at  last  to  know  j 
But  the  trumpeter  lies  sick  to  death 

In  the  stifling  dark  below. 

He  hears  the  fight  above  him  rave ; 

He  fears  his  mates  must  yield  j 
He  lies  as  in  a  narrow  grave 

Beneath  a  battle-field. 
46 


The  Trumpeter  47 

His  fate  will  fall  before  the  ship's, 

Whatever  the  ship  betide  ; 
He  lifts  the  trumpet  to  his  lips 

As  though  he  kissed  a  bride. 

"  Now  blow  thy  best,  blow  thy  last, 
My  trumpet,  for  the  Right !  "  — 
He  has  sent  his  soul  in  one  strong  blast, 
To  hearten  them  that  fight. 


COMRADES 

"  OH,  whither,  whither,  rider  toward  the  west  ?  " 
"And   whither,   whither,   rider  toward  the 
east?" 

"  I  rede  we  ride  upon  the  same  high  quest, 
Whereon  who  enters  may  not  be  released  : 

"  To  seek  the  Cup  whose  form  none  ever  saw,  — 
A  nobler  form  than  e'er  was  shapen  yet, 

Though  million  million  cups  without  a  flaw, 
Afire  with  gems,  on  princes'  boards' are  set; 

"  To  seek  the  Wine  whereof  none  ever  had 
One  draught,  though  many  a  generous  wine 
flows  free,  — 

The  spiritual  blood  that  shall  make  glad 
The  hearts  of  mighty  men  that  are  to  be." 

"  But  shall  one  find  it,  brother  ?    Where  I  ride, 
Men   mock  and  stare,  who  never  had   the 
dream. 

48 


Comrades  49 

Yet  hope  within  my  breast  has  never  died." 
"Nor    ever  died   in   mine   that    trembling 

gleam." 

/ 

"Eastward,   I   deem:  the  sun   and   all   good 

things 

Are  born  to  bless  us  of  the  Orient  old."' 
"  Westward,  I  deem  :  an  untried  ocean  sings 
Against  that  coast,  '  New  shores  await  the 
bold.' " 

"  God  speed  or  thee  or  me,  so  coming  men 
But  have  the  Cup  !  "    "  God  speed !  "  —  Not 
once  before 

Their  eyes  had  met,  nor  ever  met  again, 
Yet  were  they  loving  comrades  evermore. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  HATE 

MINE  enemy  builded  well,  with  the  soft  blue 

hills  in  sight ; 
But  betwixt  his  house  and  the  hills  I  builded  a 

house  for  spite : 
And  the  name  thereof  I  set  in  the  stone-work 

over  the  gate, 
With  a  carving  of  bats  and  apes ;  and  I  called 

it  the  House  of  Hate. 

And  the  front  was  alive  with  masks  of  malice 

and  of  despair ; 
Horned    demons    that  leered   in   stone,   and 

women  with  serpent  hair  j 
That  whenever  his  glance  would  rest  on  the 

soft  hills  far  and  blue, 
It  must  fall  on  mine  evil  work,  and  my  hatred 

should  pierce  him  through. 

And  I  said,  "  I  will  dwell  herein,  for  beholding 
my  heart's  desire 

So 


The  House  of  Hate  51 

On  my  foe ; "  and  I  knelt,  and  fain  had  bright 
ened  the  hearth  with  fire ; 

But  the  brands  they  would  hiss  and  die,  as 
with  curses  a  strangle^  man, 

And  the  hearth  was  cold  from  the  day  that  the 
House  of  Hate  began. 

And  I  called   at  the  open  door,  "  Make  ye 

merry,  all  friends  of  mine, 
In  the  hall  of  my  House  of  Hate,  where  is 

plentiful  store  and  wine. 
We  will  drink  un health  together  unto  him  I 

have  foiled  and  fooled !  " 
And  they  stared  and  they  passed  me  by  j  but 

I  scorned  to  be  thereby  schooled. 

And  I  ordered  my  board  for  feast  j  and  I  drank, 

in  the  topmost  seat, 
Choice  grape  from  a  curious  cup ;  and  the  first 

it  was  wonder-sweet ; 
But  the  second  was  bitter  indeed,  and  the  third 

was  bitter  and  black, 
And  the  gloom  of  the  grave  came  on  me,  and 

I  cast  the  cup  to  wrack. 


52  The  House  of  Hate 

Alone,   I  was   stark  alone,  and  the  shadows 

were  each  a  fear ; 
And  thinly  I  laughed,  but  once,  for  the  echoes 

were  strange  to  hear ; 
And  the  wind  in  the  hallways  howled   as   a 

green-eyed  wolf  might  cry, 
And   I  heard  my  heart :  I  must  look  on  the 

face  of  a  man,  or  die ! 

So  I  crept  to  my  mirrored  face,  and  I  looked, 

and  I  saw  it  grown 
(By  the  light  in  my  shaking  hand)  to  the  like 

of  the  masks  of  stone ; 
And  with  horror  I  shrieked  aloud  as  I  flung  my 

torch  and  fled, 
And  a  fire-snake  writhed  where  it  fell  j  and  at 

midnight  the  sky  was  red. 

And  at  morn,  when  the  House  of  Hate  was  a 

ruin,  despoiled  of  flame, 
I  fell  at  mine  enemy's  feet,  and  besought  him 

to  slay  my  shame  \ 
But  he  looked  in  mine  eyes  and  smiled,  and 

his  eyes  were  calm  and  great : 
"  You  rave,  or  have  dreamed,"  he  said ;  "  I 

saw  not  your  House  of  Hate." 


THE  ARROWMAKER 

DAY  in,  day  out,  or  sun  or  rain, 
Or  sallow  leaf,  or  summer  grain, 
Beneath  a  wintry  morning  moon 
Or  through  red  smouldering  afternoon, 
With  simple  joy,  with  careful  pride, 
He  plies  the  craft  he  long  has  plied : 
To  shape  the  stave,  to  set  the  sting, 
To  fit  the  shaft  with  irised  wing  j 
And  f  arers  by  may  hear  him  sing, 

For  still  his  door  is  wide : 
"  Laugh  and  sigh,  live  and  die,  — 
The  world  swings  round  ;  I  know  not,  I, 
If  north  or  south  mine  arrows  fly  !  " 

And  sometimes,  while  he  works,  he  dreams, 
And  on  his  soul  a  vision  gleams  : 
Some  storied  field  fought  long  ago, 
Where  arrows  fell  as  thick  as  snow. 
S3 


54  The  Arrowmaker 

His  breath  comes  fast,  his  eyes  grow  bright, 
To  think  upon  that  ancient  fight. 
Oh,  leaping  from  the  strained  string 
Against  an  armored  Wrong  to  ring, 
Brave  the  songs  that  arrows  sing ! 
He  weighs  the  finished  flight : 
"  Live  and  die ;  by  and  by 
The  sun  kills  dark  •  I  know  not,  I, 
In  what  good  fight  mine  arrows  fly ! ' 

Or  at  the  gray  hour,  weary  grown, 

When  curfew  o'er  the  wold  is  blown, 

He  sees,  as  in  a  magic  glass, 

Some  lost  and  lonely  mountain-pass  ; 

And  lo  !  a  sign  of  deathful  rout 

The  mocking  vine  has  wound  about,  -— 

An  earth-fixed  arrow  by  a  spring, 

All  greenly  mossed,  a  mouldered  thing ; 

That  stifled  shaft  no  more  shall  sing ! 

He  shakes  his  head  in  doubt. 
"  Laugh  and  sigh,  live  and  die,  — 

The  hand  is  blind  :  I  know  not,  I, 

In  what  lost  pass  mine  arrows  lie ! 

One  to  east,  one  to  west, 


The  Arrowmaker  55 

Another  for  the  eagle's  breast,  — 
The  archer  and  the  wind  know  best !  " 
The  stars  are  in  the  sky  ; 
He  lays  his  arrows  by.    ' 


A   NEST   IN   A   LYRE 

As  sign  before  a  playhouse  serves 

A  giant  Lyre,  ornately  gilded, 
On  whose  convenient  coignes  and  curves 

The  pert  brown  sparrows  late  have  builded. 
They  flit,  and  flirt,  and  prune  their  wings, 

Not  awed  at  all  by  golden  glitter, 
And  make  among  the  silent  strings 

Their  satisfied  ephemeral  twitter. 

Ah,  somewhat  so  we  perch  and  flit, 

And  spy  some  crumb  and  dash  to  win  it, 
And  with  a  witty  chirping  twit 

Our  sheltering  Time  —  there 's  nothing  in  it ! 
In  Life's  large  frame,  a  glorious  Lyre's, 

We  nest,  content,  our  season  flighty, 
Nor  guess  we  brush  the  powerful  wires 

Might  witch  the  stars  with  music  mighty. 
56 


THISBE 

THE  garden  within  was  shaded, 
And  guarded  about  from  sight ; 

The  fragrance  flowed  to  the  south  wind., 
The  fountain  leaped  to  the  light. 

And  the  street  without  was  narrow, 
And  dusty,  and  hot,  and  mean ; 

But  the  bush  that  bore  white  roses, 
She  leaned  to  the  fence  between  \ 

And  softly  she  sought  a  crevice 

In  that  barrier  blank  and  tall, 
And  shyly  she  thrust  out  through  it 

Her  loveliest  bud  of  all. 

And  tender  to  touch,  and  gracious, 
And  pure  as  the  moon's  pure  shine, 

The  full  rose  paled  and  was  perfect,  — 
For  whose  eyes,  for  whose  lips,  but  mine  ! 
57 


THE   SPRING   BEAUTIES 

THE   Puritan    Spring   Beauties   stood  freshly 

clad  for  church ; 

A  Thrush,  white-breasted,  o'er  them  sat  sing 
ing  on  his  perch. 
"  Happy  be  !  for  fair  are  ye  !  "  the  gentle  singer 

told  them, 
But  presently  a  buff-coat  Bee  came  booming 

up  to  scold  them. 
"  Vanity,  oh,  vanity  ! 
Young  maids,  beware  of  vanity ! " 
Grumbled  out  the  buff-coat  Bee, 
Half  parson-like,  half  soldierly. 

The  sweet-faced  maidens  trembled,  with  pretty, 

pinky  blushes, 
Convinced  that  it  was  wicked  to  listen  to  the 

Thrushes ; 
And  when,  that  shady  afternoon,   I  chanced 

that  way  to  pass, 
58 


The  Spring  Beauties  59 

They  hung  their  little  bonnets  down  and  looked 

into  the  grass. 

All  because  the  buff-coat  Bee 
Lectured  them  so  solemnly  :  — 
"  Vanity,  oh,  vanity  ! 
Young  maids,  beware  of  vanity  1 " 


KINSHIP 

A  LILY  grew  in  the  tangle, 

In  a  flame-red  garment  dressed, 

And  many  a  ruby  spangle 
Besprinkled  her  tawny  breast. 

And  the  silken  moth  sailed  by  her 
With  a  swift  and  a  snow-white  sail  j 

Not  a  gilt-girt  bee  came  nigh  her, 
Nor  a  fly  in  his  gay  green  mail. 

And  the  bronze-brown  wings  and  the  golden, 
O'er  the  billowing  meadows  blown, 

Were  still  as  by  magic  holden 
From  the  lily  that  flamed  alone  j 

Till  over  the  fragrant  tangle 

A  wanderer  winging  went, 
And  with  many  a  ruby  spangle 

Were  his  tawny  vans  besprent. 
60 


Kinship  61 

And  he  hovered  one  moment  stilly 
O'er  the  thicket,  her  mazy  bower, 

Then  he  sank  to  the  heart  of  the  lily, 
And  they  seemed  but  a  single  flower. 


COMPENSATION 

THE  brook  ran  laughing  from  the  shade, 
And  in  the  sunshine  danced  all  day  : 

The  starlight  and  the  moonlight  made 
Its  glimmering  path  a  Milky  Way. 

The  blue  sky  burned,  with  summer  fired  : 
For  parching  fields,  for  pining  flowers, 

The  spirits  of  the  air  desired 

The  brook's  bright  life  to  shed  in  showers. 

It  gave  its  all  that  thirst  to  slake ; 

Its  dusty  channel  lifeless  lay ; 
Now  softest  flowers,  white-foaming,  make 

Its  winding  bed  a  Milky  Way. 
62 


WHEN  WILLOWS  GREEN 

WHEN  goldenly  the  willows  green, 

And,  mirrored  in  the  sunset  pool, 
Hang  wavering,  wild-rose  clouds  between  : 
When  robins  call  in  twilights  cool : 
What  is  it  we  await  ? 
Who  lingers  and  is  late  ? 
What  strange  unrest,  what  yearning  stirs  us 

all 
When  willows  green,  when  robins  call  ? 

When  fields  of  flowering  grass  respire 

A  sweet  that  seems  the  breath  of  Peace, 
And  liquid-voiced  the  thrushes  choir, 
Oh,  whence  the  sense  of  glad  release  ? 
What  is  it  life  uplifts  ? 
Who  entered,  bearing  gifts  ? 
What  floods  from  heaven  the  being  overpower 
When  thrushes  choir,  when  grasses  flower  ? 
63 


AT  THE  PARTING  OF  THE  WAYS 

(AD  COMITEM  JUNIOREM) 

COMRADE  Youth !     Sit  down  with  me 

Underneath  the  summer  tree, 

Cool  green  dome  whose  shade  is  sweet, 

Where  the  sunny  roadways  meet. 

See,  the  ancient  finger-post, 

Silver-bleached  with  rain  and  shine, 

Warns  us  like  a  noon-day  ghost : 

That  way  's  yours,  and  this  way  's  mine ! 

I  would  hold  you  with  delays 

Here  at  parting  of  the  ways. 

Hold  you  !  I  as  well  might  look 
To  detain  the  racing  brook 
With  regrets  and  grievance  tender, 
As  my  comrade  swift  and  slender, 
Shy,  capricious,  all  of  spring  ! 
Catch  the  wind  with  blossoms  laden, 
Catch  the  wild  bird  on  the  wing, 
Catch  the  heart  of  boy  or  maiden  ! 
64 


At  the  Parting  of  the  Ways         65 

Yet  I  '11  hold  your  image  fast, 
As  this  hour  I  saw  you  last,  — 
As  with  staff  in  hand  you  sat, 
Soft  curls  putting  forth  defiant 
From  the  tilted  Mercury's  hat, 
Wreathen  with  the  wilding  grace 
Of  the  fresh-leaved  vine  and  pliant, 
Stealing  down  to  see  your  face. 
Eyes  of  pleasance,  lips  of  laughter, 
I  shall  hoard  you  long  hereafter  ; 
Very  dear  shall  be  the  days 
Ere  the  parting  of  the  ways  ! 

Shall  you  deem  them  dear,  in  truth, 
Days  when  we,  o'er  hill  and  hollow, 
Trudged  together,  Comrade  Youth  ? 
Ah,  you  dream  of  days  to  follow  ! 
Hand  in  hand  we  jogged  along ; 
I  would  fetch  from  out  my  scrip, 
Crust  or  jest  or  antique  song,  — 
Live  and  lovely,  on  your  lip. 
Such  poor  needments  as  I  had 
Were  as  yours  ;  you  made  me  glad. 
—  Lo,  the  dial !     No  prayer  stays 
Time,  at  parting  of  the  ways  ! 


66         At  the  Parting  of  the  Ways 

This  gold  memory  —  rings  it  true  ? 
Half  for  me  and  half  for  you. 
Cleave  and  share  it.     Now,  good  sooth, 
God  be  with  you,  Comrade  Youth  ! 


THE  FAIR  GRAY  LADY 

WHEN  the  charm  at  last  is  fled 

From  the  woodland  stark  and  pale, 

And  like  shades  of  glad  hours  dead 
Whirl  the  leaves  before  the  gale  : 

When  against  the  western  fire 
Darkens  many  an  empty  nest, 

Like  a  thwarted  heart's  desire 

That  in  prime  was  hardly  guessed  : 

Then  the  fair  gray  Lady  leans, 
Lingering,  o'er  the  faded  grass, 

Still  the  soul  of  all  the  scenes 
Once  she  graced,  a  golden  lass. 

O'er  the  Year's  discrowned  sleep, 
Dear  as  in  her  earlier  day, 

She  her  bending  watch  doth  keep, 
She  the  Goldenrod  grown  gray. 
67 


THE   ENCOUNTER 

THERE  's  a  wood-way  winding  high, 
Roofed  far  up  with  light-green  flicker, 
Save  one  midmost  star  of  sky. 
Underfoot  't  is  all  pale  brown 
With  the  dead  leaves  matted  down 
One  on  other,  thick  and  thicker  ; 
Soft,  but  springing  to  the  tread. 
There  a  youth  late  met  a  maid 
Running  lightly,  —  oh,  so  fleetly  ! 
"  Whence  art  thou  ? "  the  herd-boy  said. 
Either  side  her  long  hair  swayed, 
Half  a  tress  and  half  a  braid, 
Colored  like  the  soft  dead  leaf. 
As  she  answered,  laughing  sweetly, 
On  she  ran,  as  flies  the  swallow ; 
He  could  not  choose  but  follow  • 

Though  it  had  been  to  his  grief. 

"  I  have  come  up  from  the  valley,  — 
From  the  valley !  "     Once  he  caught  her, 
68 


The  Encounter 

Swerving  down  a  sidelong  alley, 
For  a  moment,  by  the  hand. 
"Tell  me,  tell  me,"  he  besought  her, 
"  Sweetest,  I  would  understand 
Why  so  cold  thy  palm,  that  slips 
From  me  like  the  shy  cold  minnow  ? 
The  wood  is  warm,  and  smells  of  fern, 
And  below  the  meadows  burn. 
Hard  to  catch  and  hard  to  win,  oh ! 
Why  are  those  brown  finger  tips 
Crinkled  as  with  lines  of  water  ? " 

Laughing  while  she  featly  footed, 
With  the  herd-boy  hasting  after, 
Sprang  she  on  a  trunk  uprooted, 
Clung  she  by  a  roping  vine ; 
Leaped  behind  a  birch,  and  told, 
Still  eluding,  through  its  fine, 
Mocking,  slender,  leafy  laughter, 
Why  her  finger  tips  were  cold  : 

"  I  went  down  to  tease  the  brook, 
With  her  fishes,  there  below ; 
She  comes  dancing,  thou  must  know, 
And  the  bushes  arch  above  her ; 


70  The  Encounter 

But  the  seeking  sunbeams  look, 

Dodging,  through  the  wind-blown  cover, 

Find  and  kiss  her  into  stars. 

Silvery  veins  entwine  and  crook 

Where  a  stone  her  tripping  bars ; 

There  be  smooth,  clear  sweeps,  and  swirls 

Bubbling  up  crisp  drops  like  pearls. 

There  I  lie,  along  the  rocks 

Thick  with  greenest  slippery  moss, 

And  I  have  in  hand  a  strip 

Of  gray,  pliant,  dappled  bark ; 

And  I  comb  her  liquid  locks 

Till  her  tangling  currents  cross ; 

And  I  have  delight  to  hark 

To  the  chiding  of  her  lip, 

Taking  on  the  talking  stone 

With  each  turn  another  tone. 

Oh,  to  set  her  wavelets  bickering ! 

Oh,  to  hear  her  laughter  simple, 

See  her  fret  and  flash  and  dimple ! 

Ha,  ha,  ha  !  "     The  woodland  rang 

With  the  rippling  through  the  flickering. 

At  the  birch  the  herd-boy  sprang. 

On  a  sudden  something  wound 
Vine-like  round  his  throbbing  throat ; 


The  Encounter 

On  a  sudden  something  smote 
Sharply  on  his  longing  lips, 
Stung  him  as  the  birch  bough  whips  : 
Was  it  kiss  or  was  it  blow  ? 
Never  after  could  he  know ; 
She  was  gone  without  a  sound. 

Never  after  could  he  see 
In  the  wood  or  in  the  mead, 
Or  in  any  company 
Of  the  rustic  mortal  maids, 
Her  with  acorn-colored  braids ; 
Never  came  she  to  his  need. 
Never  more  the  lad  was  merry , 
Strayed  apart,  and  learned  to  dream, 
Feeding  on  the  tart  wild  berry ; 
Murmuring  words  none  understood,  — 
Words  with  music  of  the  wood, 
And  with  music  of  the  stream. 


SUMMER  HOURS 

HOURS  aimless-drifting  as  the  milkweed's  down 
In  seeming,  still  a  seed  of  joy  ye  bear 
That  steals  into  the  soul  when  unaware, 

And  springs  up  Memory  in  the  stony  town. 
72 


LOVE  UNSUNG 

SEVEN  jewelled  rays  has  the  Sun  fast  bound 

In  his  arrow  of  blinding  sheen  ; 
But  he   quickens   the   breast   of  the   fruitful 
ground 

With  a  subtlest  ray  unseen. 

And  the  rainbow  moods  of  this  love  of  ours 
I  may  blend'  in  the  song  I  bring ; 

But  the  magic  that  makes  life  laugh  with  flowers 
Is  the  love  that  I  cannot  sing. 
73 


THE  WISH   FOR  A   CHAPLET 

VINELEAF  and  rose  I  would  my  chaplet  make  : 
I  would  my  word  were  wine  for  all  men's  sake, 
Pure  from  the  pressing  of  the  stainless  feet 
Of  unblamed  Hours,  and  for  an  altar  meet. 

Vineleaf  and  rose  :  I  would,  had  I  the  art, 

Distil,  to  lasting  sweet,  Joy's  rosy  heart, 

That   no   sere   autumn    should   its    fragrance 

wrong, 

Closed  in  the  crystal  glass  of  slender  song. 
74 


SONNETS 


THE  TORCH-RACE 

BRAVE  racer,  who  hast  sped  the  living  light 
With    throat    outstretched    and    every    nerve 

a-strain, 

Now  on  thy  left  hand  labors  gray-faced  Pain, 
And  Death  hangs  close  behind  thee  on  the 

right. 

Soon  flag  the  flying  feet,  soon  fails  the  sight, 
With  every  pulse  the  gaunt  pursuers  gain  ; 
And    all    thy   splendor   of   strong    life    must 

wane 
And  set  into  the  mystery  of  night. 

Yet  fear  not,  though  in  falling,  blindness  hide 
Whose  hand  shall  snatch,  before  it  sears  the 

sod, 

The  light  thy  lessening  grasp  no  more  controls  : 
Truth's  rescuer,  Truth  shall  instantly  provide  : 
This  is  the  torch-race  game,  that  noblest  souls 
Play  on  through  time  beneath  the  eyes  of 

God. 

77 


TO   SLEEP 

ALL  slumb'rous  images  that  be,  combined, 
To  this  white  couch  and  cool  shall  woo  thee, 

Sleep ! 

First  will  I  think  on  fields  of  grasses  deep 
In  gray-green  flower,  o'er  which  the  transient 

wind 

Runs  like  a  smile  ;  and  next  will  call  to  mind 
How    glistening    poplar-tops,    when    breezes 

creep 

Among  their  leaves,  a  tender  motion  keep, 
Stroking  the  sky,  like  touch  of  lovers  kind. 

Ah,  having  felt  thy  calm  kiss  on  mine  eyes, 
All  night  inspiring  thy  divine  pure  breath, 
I  shall  awake  as  into  godhood  born, 
And  with  a  fresh,  undaunted  soul  arise, 
Clear  as  the  blue  convolvulus  at  morn. 
—  Dear  bedfellow,   deals    thus    thy  brother, 
Death  ? 

78 


SISTER  SNOW 

PRAISED  be  our  Lord  (to  echo  the  sweet  phrase 
Of  saintly  Francis)  for  our  sister  Snow  : 
Whose  soft,  soft  coming  never  man  may  know 
By  any  sound  ;  whose  down-light  touch  allays 
All  fevers  of  worn  earth.    She  clothes  the  days 
In  garments  without  spot,  and  hence  doth  go 
Her  noiseless  shuttle  swiftly  to  and  fro, 
And  very  pure,  and  pleasant,  are  her  ways. 

But  yesterday,  how  loveless  looked  the  skies  ! 
How  cold  the  sun's  last  glance,  and  unbenign, 
Across  the  field  forsaken,  russet-leaved  ! 
Now  pearly  peace  on  all  the  landscape  lies. 
—  Wast  thou  not  sent  us,  Sister,  for  a  sign 
Of  that  vast  Mercy  of  God,  else  unconceived  ? 
79 


RETROSPECT 

"BACKWARD,"  he  said,"  dear  heart,  I  like  to 

look 
To  those   half-spring,  half-winter  days,  when 

first 

We  drew  together,  ere  the  leaf-buds  burst. 
Sunbeams  were  silver  yet,  keen  gusts  yet  shook 
The  boughs.    Have  you  remembered  that  kind 

book, 

That  for  our  sake  Galeotto's  part  rehearsed, 
(The  friend  of  lovers,  —  this  time  blessed,  not 

cursed !) 
And  that  best  hour,  when  reading  we  forsook  ? " 

She,  listening,  wore  the  smile  a  mother  wears 
At  childish  fancies  needless  to  control ; 
Yet  felt  a  fine,  hid  pain  with  pleasure  blend. 
Better  it  seemed  to  think  that  love  of  theirs, 
Native  as  breath,  eternal  as  the  soul, 
Knew  no  beginning,  could  not  have  an  end. 
80 


THE   CONTRAST 

HE  loved  her ;  having  felt  his  love  begin 
With  that  first  look,  —  as  lover  oft  avers. 
He  made  pale  flowers  his  pleading  ministers, 
Impressed  sweet  music,  drew  the  springtime  in 
To  serve  his  suit ;  but  when  he  could  not  win, 
Forgot  her  face  and  those  gray  eyes  of  hers  ; 
And  at  her  name  his  pulse  no  longer  stirs, 
And  life  goes  on  as  though  she  had  not  been. 

She  never  loved  him  ;  but  she  loved  Love  so, 
So  reverenced  Love,  that  all  her  being  shook 
At  his  demand  whose  entrance  she  denied. 
Her  thoughts  of  him  such  tender  color  took 
As  western  skies  that  keep  the  afterglow. 
The  words  he  spoke  were  with  her  till  she 
died. 

Si 


A   MYSTERY 

THAT  sunless  day  no  living  shadow  swept 

Across  the  hills,  fleet  shadow  chasing  light, 

Twin  of  the  sailing  cloud  :  but  mists  wool- 
white, 

Slow-stealing  mists,  on  those  heaved  shoulders 
crept, 

And  wrought  about  the  strong  hills  while  they 
slept 

In  witches'  wise,  and  rapt  their  forms  from 
sight. 

Dreams  were  they ;  less  than  dream,  the 
noblest  height 

And  farthest ;  and  the  chilly  woodland  wept. 

A  sunless  day  and  sad  :  yet  all  the  while 
Within  the  grave  green  twilight  of  the  wood, 
Inscrutable,  immutable,  apart, 
82 


A  Mystery  8} 

Hearkening  the  brook,  whose  song  she  under 
stood, 

The  secret  birch-tree  kept  her  silver  smile, 
Strange  as  the  peace  that  gleams  at  sorrow's 
heart. 


TRIUMPH 

THIS  windy  sunlit  morning  after  rain, 

The  wet  bright  laurel  laughs  with  beckoning 

gleam 
In  the  blown  wood,  whence  breaks  the  wild 

white  stream 

Rushing  and  flashing,  glorying  in  its  gain ; 
Nor  swerves  nor  parts,  but  with  a  swift  disdain 
O'erleaps  the  boulders  lying  in  long  dream, 
Lapped  in  cold   moss ;   and   in   its  joy  doth 

seem 
A  wood-born  creature  bursting  from  a  chain. 

And    "Triumph,   triumph,   triumph!"   is    its 

hoarse 
Fierce-whispered  word.     O  fond,  and  dost  not 

know 

Thy  triumph  on  another  wise  must  be,  — 
To  render  all  the  tribute  of  thy  force, 
And  lose  thy  little  being  in  the  flow 
Of  the  unvaunting  river  toward  the  sea ! 
84 


IN    WINTER,    WITH    THE    BOOK    WE 
READ   IN   SPRING 

THE  blackberry's  bloom,  when  last  we  went  this 

way, 
Veiled  all  her  bowsome  rods  with  trembling 

white  • 

The  robin's  sunset  breast  gave  forth  delight 
At  sunset  hour ;  the  wind  was  warm  with  May. 
Armored  in  ice  the  sere  stems  arch  to-day, 
Each  tiny  thorn  encased  and  argent-bright ; 
Where  clung  the  birds  that  long  have  taken 

flight, 
Dead  songless  leaves  cling  fluttering  on  the 

spray. 

O  hand  in  mine,  that  mak'st  all  paths  the  same, 
Being  paths  of  peace,  where  falls  nor  chill  nor 

gloom, 

Made  sweet  with  ardors  of  an  inward  spring ! 
85 


86  In  Winter 

I  hold  thee  —  frozen  skies  to  rosy  flame 

Are  turned,    and   snows   to   living    snows   of 

bloom, 
And  once  again  the  gold-brown  thrushes  sing. 


SERE  WISDOM 

I  HAD  remembrance  of  a  summer  morn, 
When    all    the    glistening    field    was    softly 

stirred 

And  like  a  child's  in  happy  sleep  I  heard 
The  low  and  healthful  breathing  of  the  corn. 
Late  when  the  sumach's  red  was  dulled  and 

worn, 
And    fainter    grew    the    trite    and    troublous 

word 

Of  tristful  cricket,  that  replaced  the  bird, 
I  sought  the  slope,  and  found  a  waste  forlorn. 

Against   that  cold   clear  west,  whence  winter 
peers, 

All  spectral  stood   the  bleached   stalks   thin- 
leaved, 

Dry  as  papyrus  kept  a  thousand  years, 
87 


88  Sere  Wisdom 

And    hissing    whispered    to    the    wind    that 

grieved, 

//  was  a  dream  —  we  bare  no  goodly  ears  — 
There    was    no    summer-time  —  deceived!   de 
ceived! 


ISOLATION 

WHITE  fog  around,  soft  snow  beneath  the  tread, 
All   sunless,   windless,   tranced,    the   morning 

lay; 
All   noiseless,  trackless,  new,  the  well-known 

way. 

The  silence  weighed  upon  the  sense  :  in  dread, 
"  Alone,  I  am  alone,"  I  shuddering  said, 
"  And  wander  in  a  region  where  no  ray 
Has  ever  shone,  and  as  on  earth's  first  day 
Or  last,  my  kind  are  not  yet  born  or  dead." 

Yet  not  afar,  meanwhile,  there  faltered  feet 
Like  mine,  through  that  wide  mystery  of  the 

snow, 

Nor  could  the  old  accustomed  paths  divine ; 
And  even  as  mine,  unheard  spake  voices  low, 
And  hearts  were  near,  that  as  my  own  heart 

beat, 

Warm  hands,  and  faces  fashioned  like  to  mine. 
89 


THE   LOST   DRYAD 

(TO   EDITH   M.   THOMAS) 

INTO  what  beech  or  silvern  birch,  O  friend 
Suspected  ever  of  a  dryad  strain, 
Hast  crept  at  last,  delighting  to  regain 
Thy  sylvan  house  ?    Now  whither  shall  I  wend, 
Or  by  what  winged  post  my  greeting  send, 
Bird,   butterfly,  or  bee  ?     Shall   three   moons 

wane, 

And  yet  not  found  ?  —  Ah,  surely  it  was  pain 
Of  old,  for  mortal  youth  his  heart  to  lend 
To  any  hamadryad  !     In  his  hour 
Of  simple  trust,  wild  impulse  him  bereaves  : 
She  flees,  she  seeks  her  strait  enmossed  bower : 
And   while    he,    searching,    softly   calls,    and 

grieves, 

Oblivious,  high  above  she  laughs  in  leaves, 
Or  patters  tripping  talk  to  the  quick  shower. 
9° 


A   MEMORY 

THOUGH  pent  in  stony  streets,  't  is  joy  to  know, 
}T  is  joy,  although  we  breathe  a  fainter  air, 
The  spirit  of  those  places  far  and  fair 
That  we  have  loved,  abides;  and  fern-scents 

flow 

Out  of  the  wood's  heart  still,  and  shadows  grow 
Long   on   remembered   roads   as   warm  days 

wear; 

And  still  the  dark  wild  water,  in  its  lair, 
The  narrow  chasm,  stirs  blindly  to  and  fro. 

Delight  is  in  the  sea-gull's  dancing  wings, 
And  sunshine  wakes  to  rose  the  ruddy  hue 
Of  rocks ;  and  from  her  tall  wind-slanted  stem 
A  soft  bright  plume  the  goldenrod  outflings 
Along  the  breeze,  above  a  sea  whose  blue 
Is  like  the  light  that  kindles  through  a  gem. 


THE   GIFTS   OF   THE   OAK 

(FOR  THE  SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY  OF  JAMES  RUSSELL 
LOWELL) 

*  THERE  needs  no  crown  to  mark  the  forest's 

king.* 
Thus,  long  ago,  thou  sang  'st  the  sound-heart 

tree 

Sacred  to  sovereign  Jove,  and  dear  to  thee 
Since   first,   a  venturous  youth  with   eyes   of 

spring,  — 
Whose    pilgrim-staff    each    side   put  forth   a 

wing,  — 

Beneath  the  oak  thou  lingeredst  lovingly 
To  crave,  as  largess  of  his  majesty, 
Firm-rooted  strength,  and  grace  of  leaves  that 

sing. 

He  gave ;    we  thank   him !     Graciousness  as 

grave, 

And  power  as  easeful  as  his  own  he  gave ; 
92 


Two  Gifts  of  the  Oak  93 

Long  breedings  rich  with  sun,  and  laughters 

kind  ; 

And  singing  leaves,  whose  later  bronze  is  dear 
As  the  first  amber  of  the  budding  year,  — 
Whose  voices  answer  the  autumnal  wind. 


THE  STRAYED   SINGER 

(MATTHEW  ARNOLD) 

HE  wandered  from  us  long,  oh,  long  ago, 
Rare  singer,  with  the  note  unsatisfied ; 
Into  what  charmed  wood,  what  shade  star-eyed 
With    the   wind's   April    darlings,   none  may 

know. 

We  lost  him.     Songless,  one  with  seed  to  sow, 
Keen-smiling  toiler,  came  in  place,  and  plied 
His  strength  in  furrowed  field  till  eventide, 
And  passed  to  slumber  when  the  sun  was  low. 

But    now,  —  as   though    Death    spoke    some 

mystic  word 

Solving  a  spell,  —  present  to  thought  appears 
The  morn  's  estray,  not  him  we  saw  but  late ; 
And  on  his  lips  the  strain  that  once  we  heard, 
And  in  his  hand,  cool  as  with   Springtime's 

tears, 

The  melancholy  wood-flowers  delicate. 
94 


THE   IMMORTAL   WORD 

ONE   soiled   and   shamed   and  foiled   in   this 

world's  fight, 

Deserter  from  the  host  of  God,  that  here 
Still  darkly  struggles,  —  waked  from  death  in 

fear, 
And   strove   to  screen  his  forehead  from  the 

white 

And  blinding  glory  of  the  awful  Light, 
The  revelation  and  reproach  austere. 
Then  with  strong  hand  outstretched  a  Shape 

drew  near, 
Bright-browed,  majestic,  armored  like  a  knight. 

"  Great  Angel,  servant  of  the  Highest,  why 
Stoop'st  thou  to  me  ?  "  although  his  lips  were 

mute, 

His  eyes  inquired.     The  Shining  One  replied  : 
"  Thy  Book,  thy  birth,  life  of  thy  life  am  I, 
Son  of  thy  soul,  thy  youth's  forgotten  fruit. 
We  two  go  up  to  judgment  side  by  side." 
95 


Cone.H.G. 

The  ride , to  the  lady    r 


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